


Reborn of the Blood

by fractalanatomy



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Bathing, Beasthood, Biting, Blood Use, Cannibalism, Choking, Gore, Humiliation, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Rough Sex, Violence, bulging, valtr and his vore kink jfc
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-30
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2018-12-08 16:50:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11650740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fractalanatomy/pseuds/fractalanatomy
Summary: You left this world drowned in blood, and from the river of blood you are reborn.As it turns out, the end is not actually the end, for Alfred. Finding himself in a waking nightmare, he must now venture forward and sort out the mess he's gotten himself into, for the sake of his afterlife.(Or: Alfred more or less fucks his way through the Nightmare.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Tags will be added/changed as appropriate. This might get weird, knowing me. Enjoy!

_You left this world drowned in blood, and from the river of blood you are reborn._

Just as the split-second birth of _All_ came from _Nothing_ , the blackness of void no longer enveloped him like a womb, and in an instant all of his reality simply _Was_. 

Alfred woke with a start, trying to blink the vestige of sleep from his eyes, but the rich red tint would not go, and he would soon understand why. He groaned, having come-to face down on the ground, but quickly pushed himself onto his hands and knees once realizing he was lingering in several inches of stinking filth, ignoring the stiffness of death that had settled into his bones. 

Blood, an entire river of it, stretching as far as the eye could see-- it dripped lewdly down his face and front from where he had been laying, and, looking earthward, saw it flowing beneath him at a steady pace, thick like gravy and more pungent than even the most aged of Yharnam’s special cocktails. Rot and feces, beasts and blood, _so_ much blood. What was this place? Last he could remember, he had...

Ah. 

Gloved fingers explored along his throat, and, finding the fatal wound mended, Alfred sighed, sitting back on his haunches to regain his bearings. The end was in fact a new beginning for him, or so it seemed, and he briefly wondered if this continued existence would reduce the poignancy in the act of taking his own life-- the last lingering Vileblood Hunter, having finished off his greatest enemy and laid his Master to rest as a martyr in the annals of history, had sacrificed himself to bring the final chapter of Logarius’ faithful executioners to a close. Everything fit together as it should, and so it would stay, in aeternum.

In truth, his fate was decided the day his vision began to blur, his pupils distorted and on the verge of collapse, something to which only Alfred himself had been privy. With his inevitable descent into beasthood looming just over his shoulder, he knew he would never have a happy ending, but through sheer strength of will he would carve out his legacy on his own terms. Finally being handed summons to Cainhurst gave him the ribbon needed to tie up every loose end, and through his death present his story in a clean little package for future generations to unwrap-- he did so love history. His illness, his deteriorating mental state, how brutally he had carried out his final task...those were details worth burying beneath the sands of time, as far as Alfred was concerned.

Back to his new reality, then. Was this the afterlife? Doubtful, as the rumble of hunger in his stomach and his continuing need to breathe told him otherwise, and he hadn’t the patience to consider those facts being just a trick of the mind. His green eyes scanned the desaturated landscape, taking in what he could with his rotting pupils-- there was a familiarity in the alienness of this world, as if a greater power had sliced up Yharnam’s Cathedral Ward and glued the pieces back together in a non-linear fashion, an unsettling dreamscape birthed from a mind on a higher plane. It could have been poetic to the right person, but the former executioner merely found it unnecessary, even confusing.

Furrowing his brow, Alfred scratched at his facial hair, then looked down to his glove and groaned upon realizing he had just smeared blood all over that side of his face, dirtying his one clean muttonchop. Every man and creature he could see suffered from the same affliction, nearly painted solid red with a thick crust of blood, but none of them seemed to mind upholding the status quo, much to Alfred’s disgust. Whatever the reason he found himself posthumously deposited into this hellscape, his gut instinct told him he had to find a way out, or at the very least, find a suitable place to get clean, because this would not do at all. He had _standards_.

Letting out a pained groan, Alfred stood with snapping joints and shrieking muscles, having to readjust to the weight of living. Grabbing the handle of his nearby Logarius wheel and hefting it over his shoulder was a monumental task, leaving him nearly breathless, but soon he recovered and staggered off in one direction, dripping a trail behind himself. Dodging stray bullets and bulldozing his way through mobs of screaming, blood-addled hunters, he hoped he would come across at least one other person with which to have a conversation, or perhaps share a sandwich-- surely there was civility to be found somewhere in this godforsaken realm!

...Surely?


	2. Chapter 2

It could only have been hours since he had first arrived, but to Alfred it felt like days, even weeks dragging on beneath a motionless sun, one that could very well have been painted into the sky for all he knew. He was growing tired of raising his weapon to every person he met, none of them lucid enough to see him for what he was instead of another beast running rampant. Considering his current state, he couldn’t lay too much blame, he supposed-- the longer he followed trickling streams and tributaries of blood to their source, smashing every opponent to a pulp, the more he blended in with his surroundings, until the entirety of his hair and clothing was coated in putrid blood, only the whites of his eyes and teeth standing out as he panted heavily. To say this wasn’t rousing the beast within him would have been a lie, but he did his best to calm the shrieking howls in the back of his head, thoughts of his sacred vows, the wisdom of Master Logarius, and the imagined smell of freshly baked pies keeping his humanity at the forefront.

Rounding a corner and entering a building he had thought abandoned, it hardly surprised him when a haggard figure in a back corner pulled out a serpentine silver blade to meet him, but then the two men waited for each other to make the first move, the tension nearly palpable. Alfred braced himself, ready to throw his entire weight into a brutal swing of his Logarius wheel, but stopped short as the other man crouched ever so slightly, looking ready to slide between the former executioner’s legs to make a clean getaway, or perhaps stab him in the back, whatever was easiest. His burgeoning bloodlust told him to move forward, take the swing and grind the fool into a stain upon the stones, but as he stood still his breathing slowed, and the heat of the moment soon fizzled out. He lowered his wheel to the ground and leaned upon it, taking a break while keeping a close eye on the hunter should he decide to make any sudden moves.

“You,” Alfred said simply, nodding toward the smaller man. “You have your wits about you.”

“Aye,” came the relieved reply, and the queer silver blade was sheathed, though remained easily accessible. “You as well? Taken a wrong turn to end up in the Hunter’s Nightmare, eh?”

Alfred huffed and looked away for a moment, running a hand through his blood-crusted mop of hair.

“Something along those lines,” he said hoarsely. “The Hunter’s Nightmare, hm? A nightmare for the rest of us in dealing with these chaps, I daresay.”

The other man let out a dry laugh and dared to step closer, sizing up his potential opponent from behind his ragged head bandage.

“A collective nightmare, spawned from the misdeeds of our forbears. Pay no mind to the blood-drunk fools, they’ve become even worse than the beasts they hunt.” The slim man took a pregnant pause, giving his pointed beard a scratch. “You seek to learn the secrets locked away in this madness, then, executioner?”

Once an executioner, always an executioner, Alfred supposed. The wheel was a dead giveaway.

“Well, I do like a good secret,” he said thoughtfully, unaware of how deep this particular rabbit hole went. “First and foremost, I seek to learn where one might find running water, or perhaps a bath...but where are my manners, friend? You may call me Alfred.”

Out of polite habit, Alfred offered his hand for a shake, however his newfound ally took one look at the blood-soaked state of his glove and made no move to reciprocate, wearing a slight grimace.

“Simon,” he replied curtly. “Pray forgive me if I do not--”

“Ah, yes, of course. My apologies,” Alfred said quickly, retracting his hand and feeling rather dumb. “I’d briefly forgotten red is not my natural colouration.”

Simon let out a genuine laugh despite himself, surprised by the charm of this blood-soaked newcomer. Their banter reminded him of better days, before lies and insight had drawn him to this godforsaken place, and he much desired to spend more time with the displaced executioner before going their separate ways. The Nightmare offered nothing but misery and secrets wrapped in riddles, perhaps it would do the two of them good to wash themselves clean of it for a time? Both literally and metaphorically, of course. 

“...I do know of a place where the veil is thin, and layers bleed into each other like ink,” the hunter said cryptically, to which Alfred gave a blank smile and nod.

“Good, good! That sounds promising. Would you lead the way, friend?”

Soon realizing his broad form was in fact _blocking_ the way, Alfred scooped up his weapon and stepped aside, hoping Simon had enough situational awareness not to slip in the trail of blood he had dripped onto the stone floor-- he had to grin as he watched the hunter daintily hop past him and around the chaotic splatters, receiving a sly grin right back. The slim man was certainly nimble, skillfully so.

Having company while fending off lunatics and blood-gorged horrors made the time pass much more quickly, not to mention trading quips and stories of Yharnam with Simon making their journey almost pleasant. Not that their destination was much of a trek, but the less time Alfred had to spend thinking about trudging through filth, the better, in his opinion. The harrowed hunter was a strange fellow, one who seemed much more concerned with airing the Healing Church’s dirty laundry than obeying its holy order, to which Alfred frowned, but bit his tongue, not wanting to alienate the one sane person he had found in this Nightmare. In a way he felt pity for the man who purposely dressed in rags and sought the truth with such conviction that he eschewed all creature comforts, but he supposed that did show an admirable strength of character, if nothing else.

It was the mouth of a cave like any other, but here Simon stopped, looking back to Alfred with a knowing smile. 

“Nearly there,” he sang, then continued inward, dragging a hand along the rock wall to feel his way in the dimming light, following the sound of far-off rapids.

The executioner dutifully followed, and was soon rewarded with a sight he would never have expected to see in this cursed realm. The deeper they ventured into the dark, the less tainted it became, the flow of blood beneath their boots trickling to a stop and giving way to dry rock. Before long an eerie blue glow lit their path, casting long shadows back toward the gloom, and a flicker of light caught Alfred’s eye-- once he rounded the final corner to catch up with Simon, he was delighted to see water rushing downward from a gap in the low ceiling to fill a deep, clear pool. Fragments of white light shone through as well and hit the surface of the rushing water to shatter like a million pieces of glass, the resulting rainbow shards dancing dreamily across the rock walls, causing Alfred to do a slow spin to take it all in. 

“Marvelous,” he said under his breath, touching a glittering shard on the nearby wall and leaving a smear of blood in his wake.

“Mm. Here the line blurs between Dream and Nightmare,” his companion added, sounding amused.

“Whose dream, then?”

Simon merely shrugged and smiled, busying himself in one of his many pockets.

With a huff, Alfred leaned his wheel against one side of the cave and went over to the pool’s edge, squatting down to peer into the dark water and watch the runoff flowing away into the still-unexplored depths of the cave. He dipped a gloved hand into the gently churning liquid and smiled as some of the blood staining the fabric was pulled out, watching the streak of red as it dispersed, then joined the flow draining away, never to return.

“This will do nicely,” he said to himself, standing back up with a sigh.

“Hand me your garments before taking the plunge and I will busy myself cleaning them,” Simon instructed, then paused as he caught the incredulous look he was being given. “You...did mean to take them off before bathing, I assume?”

Alfred was suddenly too busy blustering to give a proper answer, reddening a bit and holding a hand over his belt protectively, which said it all, really.

“My friend, there’s no need for modesty’s conventions here,” Simon chuckled. “Useless notions in such a place, benefiting no one.”

A low noise of uncertainty emanated from the back of Alfred’s throat, prompting Simon to begin undressing himself with a funny little smirk, unraveling his head bandages and shirking off his coat to toss them aside. He held out a hand to the executioner, inviting him to do the same, letting the bigger man’s gaze trail for as long as he liked over the excessive scarring of his lithe, sinewy form. 

“I suppose...yes, I suppose you’re right,” Alfred finally conceded, trying not to stare too long at his half-naked companion, who clearly did live a hard life of little excess. 

Thankfully his blush was well hidden beneath caked layers of blood. He began to peel off his robes, which had become well and truly stuck to his underlayers, feeling more at ease with every uncovered inch given the chance to breathe. Finally shimmying out of the last of his soiled clothes and kicking his boots aside, Alfred avoided eye contact while propping them in a neat little pile and slipping into the pool of fresh water as quickly as he could, making quite the splash. He could barely even hear Simon’s chuckle as he slid beneath the surface and stayed submerged for as long as possible, soaking in the sheer joy of being able to rinse himself off for the first time in what seemed like years. Shutting his eyes and floating still, lifeless, he simply listened to the muted roar of the water falling from the heavens above, and was briefly lost in paradise, wishing for this moment to never end.

Eventually giving in and needing air, Alfred surfaced from a thick cloud of blood like a shark from a kill, and he scrubbed frantically at his face until he could feel the smoothness of skin emerging from beneath the caked-on layer of grime, then shook his messy hair with a contented sigh. One green eye cracked open to peer over at Simon, who, true to his word, had begun taking bloodstained pieces of the executioner’s clothing and wringing them in the water, beating out the filth to the best of his ability. 

Not lingering too long upon the other man, Alfred busied himself wiping clean what he could see of his body, scrubbing hard and re-submerging several times to give himself a good rinse, the fouled water draining away in a steady stream, much to his satisfaction. It was such a big job that before he had even finished cleaning his upper body, Simon had dutifully wrung out every garment provided and laid them neatly across the cave floor to dry, each piece permanently a shade or two redder than it had been originally, but as clean as possible under the circumstances. The lithe hunter sat cross-legged at the edge of the pool and simply watched his companion enjoy his much-needed bath, occasionally dipping his hands in and rubbing the accumulated dirt from his dark skin, but mostly concerned with getting an eyeful of his increasingly handsome guest. 

“Come over, let me work at your blind spots,” Simon said, long fingers beckoning him near. “Your back needs tending.”

“Join me instead,” Alfred answered, sinking down to his nose in the water and blowing a few playful bubbles at his new friend.

“I could,” Simon considered. “You don’t mind?”

A snort of derision and a splash in Simon’s direction made the decision easy, and the harrowed hunter slipped out of his trousers in record time, hopping into the chilly water and paddling over to Alfred’s side. There were a few stubborn areas he could see the executioner was unable to reach on his own, and so he ran a hand over Alfred’s shoulder on the way down his back, dexterous fingers squeezing gently at the muscles they found along the way. Having been soaking for awhile now, there was barely any work in scrubbing clean the remains of blood from the other man’s skin, and Simon continued to hum and haw even once he was finished, greedily mapping the landscape of flesh and muscle before him. It felt so good that Alfred could hardly complain, merely letting out the odd sigh and appreciative moan as a particularly sensitive spot was worked on.

The blonde man was made for strength much more than dexterity, certainly broad and solid in build-- _mostly_ solid, the slim hunter noted, except around the middle, where Simon’s fingers dared to dig into the soft padding of Alfred’s belly, getting quickly grabbed by the wrist in response.

“Your help is required in that area, is it?” Alfred asked with surprisingly sharp edge, self-conscious enough to turn and face his companion.

Finding himself caught like an animal in a trap, Simon cracked a nervous grin, ignoring his instincts to inch closer to the bigger man instead of shying away as he normally might.

“It could be, should you care for it,” he said quietly, his free hand settling over Alfred’s side and gently palming the curve of his belly again. 

A little groan of pleasure betrayed the executioner’s feelings on the matter, and he let go of Simon’s wrist to slide an arm around the small of the hunter’s back, pulling him into a warm, comfortable embrace. Simon swallowed thickly but could not deny he fit very nicely there-- this is what he wanted, wasn’t it? The tip of his narrow nose rubbed along the edge of Alfred’s jaw while the pads of his fingers trailed ever downward, teasing over the executioner’s hip bones and following the dip of the valley path to his inner thighs. Easily finding the base of his cock from there, Simon’s fingertips circled lightly, teasing between the underside of the shaft and over the balls to quickly stand his partner at attention. 

“G- _goodness_ ,” Alfred coughed, nearly at half-mast already and giving a hard thrust into Simon’s hand. “Everybody out of the pool?”

The slimmer man bit his lip and nodded enthusiastically, launching himself up out of the water to land his bare bottom against the cave floor with a loud _smack_. As his larger partner hauled himself onto dry land as well, Simon rummaged around in one of the sacs tied to his coat and plucked out a blood vial, pouring the viscous fluid into his hand and looking to Alfred with a sly smile.

“You’ve had a difficult journey thus far, and there is much more in store,” he said prophetically. “Lie back...allow me to entertain you.”

Knowing when to obey an order, Alfred wore a tiny grin as he settled onto his side, head propped up by his elbow to watch the proceedings with heavy-lidded eyes.

Simon chuckled, giving himself a few hard strokes before eagerly grabbing Alfred’s stiff cock and slathering it in thick blood, admiring the size of his partner in all respects. He leaned down and their lips finally met in a long, slow kiss, the tail end sharp with teeth and pent up energy-- to which Simon squeezed his hand hard in response, bringing forth a strangled whine from the bigger man. Feeling a bit sorry then, the hunter went back in for another kiss, but this time it was sweet and soulful, sealed with a few chaste pecks for good measure. Releasing his blood-soaked grip, he gave his backside a swipe with the makeshift lubricant to be safe while Alfred took the hint, rolling over obediently in anticipation of being mounted.

Nimbly, Simon climbed aboard to straddle the executioner’s hips and wriggle his own into place, spreading himself wide. He rocked back and forth, sliding slick, delicate skin across the tip of Alfred’s cock before daring to let gravity push his body downward, and his sharp gasp bounced between cave walls, having forgotten how wonderful it was to be so full. The executioner’s quick thrust upward in response made him feel as though he’d just been impaled, uncomfortably but exquisitely stretched to accommodate his partner’s size, and though it took some fortitude to do more than sit still until his bowels stopped throbbing, Simon let out a few shaky breaths and began rolling his hips, bracing himself with his hands against Alfred’s broad chest.

The hunter’s body above him was practically poetry in motion, Alfred mused, each action fluid and deliberate and just as enthralling as watching him fight-- plus being able to watch the bulge his own cock made beneath the skin of his partner’s concave belly was quite the turn-on. Simon was thin and ropy, true, but the weight of him pressing down upon Alfred’s chest was somehow comforting, and the blonde man gave in to the urge to force a few hard thrusts upward, a grunt of pleasure escaping him...and a yelp from his partner.

“E-easy now,” Simon stuttered, grinding to a halt with his nails like claws dug into his partner’s pecs. “You’re...r-rather a big boy, don’t exert yourself just yet.”

“Ah! Sorry,” Alfred huffed, not daring to move any further and ruin it for them both. Gods knew when this chance would present itself to him again.

With a hiss, the harrowed hunter relaxed his muscles and eased himself back down the length of Alfred’s cock, carefully leaning over to give his partner a pardoning kiss to the nose. Simon then picked up where he had left off, riding at a languid, drawn-out pace that made Alfred grit his teeth in frustration, but it would soon be worth it to behave, he knew it would. Obedience was its own reward, he had been taught at a young age.

Still...when it came to temptations of the flesh, the executioner was notoriously weak-willed.

Alfred ventured a hand outward, sliding down Simon’s side from his ribcage to his sharp hips, then brushed the back against his partner’s arousal, teasing his thumb over the dripping tip. The hunter’s breath hitched at the touch and his back arched, but it was very clearly a good thing, and he suddenly relaxed his abdominal muscles, picking up the pace. Before long Alfred’s head was swimming in pleasure from finally being ridden properly, and he reached up to grab a handful of Simon’s spiky brown hair, pulling him into a forceful kiss and humming at the feel of Simon’s arousal sliding between their bodies, pressing snugly against his soft belly. It was pure bliss...barring that overly familiar bestial threat looming in the back of his mind and making his blood boil in his veins, ready to take control the second he let his guard down. 

Alfred was losing himself to his senses the closer he got to climax, intoxicated by the smell of his partner’s hair, listening to gasps and moans rising in pitch and intensity, loving how tightly nails were dug into the skin of his chest to mix that little bit of pain with overwhelming pleasure-- before he knew it, Simon let out a choked cry and came, his tired body quivering while riding out such a powerful orgasm until the tidal wave was nothing more than a slow ebb, nerves completely staggered and buzzing from overstimulation. Simon still worked his hips and whispered encouragement for the executioner to finish up through haggard breaths, letting him thrust hard as he leaned down to enjoy the afterglow in his partner’s warm embrace and nuzzle into his neck-- instead finding sharp pain in his shoulder where Alfred’s teeth had sunk into the flesh. His dark eyes widened with sudden fear and he clawed at the bigger man to get some distance between them, but Alfred would release his jaw in his own time, wanting the rich taste of blood and skin on his tongue while his hips jerked in orgasm, filling his slim partner with seed. 

Finally pulling free and licking the blood from his lips, the executioner let out a low growl before locking eyes with his companion, and Simon could see a visible change as Alfred won the fight to regain control of himself, features softening almost instantly. The larger man’s heavy breathing slowed and he let his head down to rest upon the hard cave floor, shutting his eyes for a minute, clearly spent.

It was a long moment of silence between the two before Simon wriggled loose from Alfred’s softening cock, grabbing him by the jaw and forcing him to look up.

“Don’t lose yourself, you fool!” he spat, lips curled in a snarl. “This place will make a beast of you, and then there is _no escape!_ ”

A deep, tired chuckle was all Alfred could muster in reply, entirely devoid of humour, not wanting to tell the hunter straddling him that it was far too late. He slid an arm behind Simon’s back and held him close, fingers playing in his messy hair, unwilling to address the issue.

“Don’t you dare give in, I’ll cull you myself,” Simon continued, quietly this time with a sad determination in his voice.

Sighing, he then settled his full weight upon his partner, nestling in for a well-deserved rest. He would likely only stay until the executioner fell asleep, then slink off to continue his quest, but for now, he would cling to this moment in time as if it were his last, allowing the larger man to gently kiss and lick around the wound he had made in his moment of weakness.

Finally finding his voice, it was all Alfred could do to softly whisper across his partner's skin, "Forgive me."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind the tags! This is your one warning!

Alfred had hoped he would not wake up alone, but in his heart he knew he would, and was not proven wrong. The uneven rock floor had done a number on his back, it seemed, so he rolled onto his side to work the stiffness out of his sore muscles, stretching with great effort and giving a loudly exaggerated yawn that echoed down into the blackness of the cave. He lazily scratched his chest afterward, blinking the remnants of sleep from his eyes while considering where to go from here. Was it worth chasing down Simon, or continuing his journey all alone to make sense out of sheer chaos? The harrowed hunter seemed the type to stay well hidden when he wanted, like a spider crouched in a wall crack-- Alfred figured it best to go on his own and simply hope he would encounter Simon again, as his gut told him he would. He tended to trust his gut feelings, both figuratively and literally.

Speaking of which, he could hardly remember the last time he had eaten, and a ferocious growl from his stomach came as an uncomfortable reminder. With a resigned sigh, Alfred stood and padded over to the stream of clear, pure water that rushed down from the cave’s ceiling and gathered in the pool below, splashing himself clean in a few important areas before sticking his snout into the stream and drinking his fill, hoping to make the hunger temporarily subside. His bladder would pay for it later, but proper hydration was very important, as Master Logarius had once said.

Being left to wake up alone had been rather disappointing, but at least Simon had tried to win some favour by neatly folding the executioner’s dry clothing-- for someone who looked like a walking pile of rags, he was surprisingly good at it, too. Alfred wore a little grin of amusement while dressing himself, mentally making note to comment the next time they met that if the hunt ever lost its appeal, Simon would surely make a wonderful laundress.

While there was still more of the cave to explore and a potential exit to an unknown area of the Nightmare, Alfred felt it prudent to cover as much ground as possible before moving on, still having at least one more path to take up the river of blood, loathe as he was to go back. He was nothing if not thorough, however, and it would have bothered him to leave one avenue unexplored. So, grabbing his wheel and hiking it over his shoulder, the executioner lumbered back to the mouth of the cave, hoping he could remember exactly how he had gotten there, then set off into the blood-soaked wilderness seeking...something. Anything that would help him discover his purpose, he supposed.

The sound of an unearthly roar and the wet crack that followed could not have been anything good, but it certainly drew his attention. Heavy footsteps splashing through the bloodied muck soon thundered off, far too many for any one body to have, and Alfred carefully and quietly rounded the corner of the nearest pile of corpses to investigate, peeking first to make sure whatever creature had sent a person flying through the air like a ragdoll was not sitting there waiting for him. Satisfied after a moment of relative silence, he made his way through the canals, finally spotting a heap of dark clothing in the middle of a murder of crows, who warbled and cawed and shuffled their corpse-bloated bodies threateningly upon his approach. He could easily have shot them dead from afar, but not wanting to attract too much attention, he dispatched them one by one with a hearty smash of his wheel, then kicked their grease-slicked forms aside to clear a path to the unfortunate soul on the ground.

Kneeling down, Alfred could not tell through the many layers of hunter clothing if they had been a man or a woman, but they were small in stature and had been nearly broken in half, lying bent at an impossible angle with ribs puncturing their jacket, some liver and a length of bowel bulging out of mottled purple skin. The crows had already managed to pick free more innards to gorge themselves upon before he had ruined their feast, judging from the pieces of flesh and other bits scattered nearby, and though he should have felt revulsion at the sight and smell of it, all he could manage was a sort of hungry curiosity. Without even thinking, he took off a glove and stuck his finger into the wound, rooting around for a moment before sucking the digit clean, pressing his tongue against the roof of his mouth to revel in the metallic taste. He very nearly did it again, too, but caught himself just in time, his hand jerking back reflexively as if too near a flame. 

Looking away and spitting the bloodied saliva from his mouth, suppressing the unease in his mind at this uncontrolled action, Alfred’s attention was soon caught by a wooden object in the nearby muck-- some kind of weapon? Grabbing it for inspection, he realized it was a staff, perhaps dropped by the unfortunate hunter upon impact with the ground, but it hardly seemed sturdy enough to be used in that way. As well, he discovered the metal cap on the handle could be unscrewed and a yellowed piece of parchment revealed, which he then unfurled and scanned over, realizing it was a list of names. He carefully scrutinized the shaky writing while holding it directly in front of his nose, but not a single name looked familiar...at the very top of the page there was a peculiar symbol, however, which drew his eyes to take in every single curve and shape, as if speaking to him wordlessly. It was a Caryll rune, the executioner knew that much, though for who, or _what?_

The corner of his lips curled up in an unexpected smile as he realized the design reminded him of a button-up shirt, or a coat. How delightfully ordinary.

Having taken in the entirety of the rune's design, memorizing it well, a high-pitched resonance now rang clearly in his ears, the distant echo of a bell’s chime crossing the veil of worlds to make itself known to him. Alfred knew the sound well, having responded many times to hunters' calls for aid, but had not been on the receiving end in a very long time, and he dug within the fallen hunter’s pockets until he found the beckoning bell they had been carrying, unable to locate his own. Starved for human interaction, he barely gave it a single thought before gently ringing the bell and standing up to wait for whoever was there to meet his call. It was worth a try, wasn’t it?

Barely a minute passed before the very fabric of reality wavered and glowed an arcane blue, and another man appeared before his eyes who gave a swift salute with his own version of the wooden staff. The newcomer was smartly dressed in a navy blue constable’s uniform with all the buttons and gadgets attached, but Alfred cocked a brow at his choice of helm, what seemed to be a metal bucket with a single hole in it. Well, perhaps not _truly_ a bucket, but it was very similar in shape. 

(Had he any self-awareness he would have realized it was no more ridiculous than his own helm, but that was certainly not the case.)

“Well met,” Alfred said jovially, giving a proper bow to his new companion.

“An executioner amidst our ranks, eh?” boomed an amused voice from behind the bucket, the man firmly planting his staff in the muck underfoot to lean his weight upon it. “You cut a handsome figure but I’m afraid I don’t recognize you, my lad. Jog my memory, would you?”

Alfred raised both brows at that, unsure of what to think.

“Ah, well, I am Alfred, protege of the eminent Master Logarius,” he said politely, offering his hand to shake. “And yourself?”

The other man scoffed at first, figuring that must have been the executioner’s idea of a joke, but the more he considered it and inspected his beckoner, the more sincere Alfred seemed. The blonde man was not one of his confederates, apparently, but there was still some potential to this chance encounter.

“I am Valtr, Master of the League. Members of the League cleanse the streets of all the filth that's spread about during the hunt, and we do it well,” he proudly proclaimed, puffing out his chest. “Now, how did you go about summoning me without having taken the League Oath, hm?”

Wearing a blank expression, Alfred looked down at the League register he still held, then over to the remains of the hunter who had apparently been a confederate, then back up to Valtr, offering only a little shrug of his broad shoulders. Hell if he knew.

Valtr let out a snort, then a chuckle that increased in intensity until it developed into a raucous fit of laughter. The uniqueness of the situation was clearly not lost upon him, and even Alfred had to grin, albeit awkwardly.

“I suspect that poor chap had something to do with it, eh?”

“Oh, yes, I suppose so,” Alfred considered, then hastily added, “but they were dead before I found them, I certainly didn’t--”

Valtr cut the younger man off with another laugh, though there was a forced quality to it this time. 

“No, of course not, I would never have suggested such a thing. It’s the nature of the Nightmare, you see, for hunters to be chewed up and promptly spat out as mulch,” he said, sobering quickly. “This plane is rife with filth and foul disease, a breeding ground for vermin and bearers of plague. There is much work to be done here.”

Alfred furrowed his brows, his gaze wandering up to the opening where he had first heard the unearthly screams and heavy thudding of an enormous creature making its slow retreat. 

“Shall we engage in jolly cooperation, then, on our dearly departed confederate’s honour?” he asked, looking back over to Valtr with a mischievous little smile.

An approving chuckle and a pat on the back was more than enough to encourage Alfred to hike his weapon over his shoulder, leading the way up the hill of cascading blood and rot into the open tunnel, the stink of which was so ripe that it was nearly palpable. Both men passed through the stone archway at the end side by side and cautiously entered an enormous open room that may once have been part of a chapel, but now seemed to serve as a mass grave, wall to wall with decaying corpses still writhing and jerking in their own private hells. One even reached out to them with a mouldering skeletal arm, pleading in a hoarse whisper for mercy.

“An unsightly beast...a great terror looms,” it warned, creeping forward on all fours. “Ludwig the Accursed is coming--!”

“Ludwig?” Alfred repeated, looking over to Valtr in disbelief. “The Holy Blade of the Church? _Here?_ ”

With a loud metallic click, the League master snapped the head of his weapon into place upon its long handle and held it at the ready, the vicious whirring of the saw’s blades bolstering the confidence of both men. 

“Your Church’s heroes do make for the most fearsome beasts,” Valtr answered darkly, revving his saw again as the shadow of an enormous figure rose from behind a pile of corpses across the room.

With countless twitching limbs and legions of moist, unblinking eyes, the horrible thing crawled forward into view, and Alfred’s jaw dropped, having never seen something so malformed and hideous in all his life. Could this unholy amalgamation of man and horse and _gods knew what else_ truly be what had become of one of the Healing Church’s most revered figures? Such a fate had to be a cruel joke, surely, and the executioner could hardly keep from staring in horror until a deafening shriek from the shuddering creature knocked some sense back into him. A split second later on his evasive roll and he would not have been able to avoid a feral Ludwig charging and slamming into him like a freight train, something Valtr took the brunt of instead. Alfred called out to his companion but even after having been tossed around so violently, Valtr was back up on his feet and stabbing the needle of a blood vial into his leg within moments, ready to dismantle their enemy piece by bloodied piece.

It was shocking how quickly something so large could move-- even taking care to attack Ludwig’s flank and listen for Valtr’s commanding shouts from the head of the beast, Alfred could not avoid every retaliating kick or side-swipe from foot-long claws. Dodging so many awkward limbs was an exhausting affair as well, a never-ending dance through blood and bone to land hit after hit with his trusty Logarius wheel, pummelling the creature’s most vulnerable areas for what seemed like an eternity. The roar of Valtr’s whirligig saw could be heard even over the twisted equine screams that filled the room, until a cry of victory and an ear-piercing squeal rang out and Ludwig fell to the floor in a heavy heap, sending waves of blood crashing into islands of corpses in his wake.

Panting heavily, Alfred jogged over to the League master’s side to inspect the damage, and found his eyes instantly drawn to Valtr’s right shoulder, which was exposed and had been thoroughly mangled by deformed teeth. 

“Let me see,” he insisted, reaching to inspect the seeping wound.

“Merely a scratch,” Valtr said jokingly, angling his body with a hiss to let the younger man get a good look.

Though he had meant well, Alfred found himself transfixed by the sight and smell of fresh gore, now overcome by hunger, and was unable to stop himself from dragging his fingers over the open wound. He greedily lapped up the blood that dribbled down his palm and let out a lewd little moan at the taste, but before he could get another fistful, Valtr had whipped around to face him, backing away slowly.

“What do you think you’re d--” he began, then stopped, both men’s gazes instantly drawn toward the column of eerie teal light that now shone from the middle of the room.

“Ahh, you were at my side all along,” came a contemplative voice, decidedly human, from what had been a mindless beast moments ago. “My true mentor...my guiding moonlight.”

Ludwig was already a fearsome sight, but now balanced upon his haunches, wielding his legendary sword as a champion, he was truly awe-inspiring. As tall as a building and bathed in shimmering moonlight, he reared up in preparation to strike, and Alfred swallowed thickly, ready to hurl himself out of the way to avoid the bone-crushing blow aimed right at him.

“Incoming,” the executioner warned, his voice hoarse and low with vocal chords coated in blood.

"Wonderful,” Valtr muttered under his breath, administering another blood vial and straightening up as his shredded muscles began stitching themselves back together, revving the whirligig saw for another go.

The power behind every swing of the mighty sword could have cleaved mountains in twain, brutal hits followed up by shockwaves of light burning everything in their path, and the two men barely had a moment’s rest between the ferocity of Ludwig’s attacks, dodging and trying to close the distance from their enemy across the room. Valtr ran head-on and seemed to have the beast’s attention for now, leaving Alfred to take an opening and slide in underneath Ludwig’s front legs from the side, slamming his wheel against fragile equine limbs in an attempt to break them and knock the beast to the ground once more. Ludwig's focus was unyielding, however, and with one well-timed strike the League master was slammed hard and sent flying backward in a crescent of teal fire, his right arm nearly severed at the shoulder and his helm knocked clean off, just lucky his head hadn’t gone with it.

With one more hit as Ludwig tried to get the blonde man out from under him, his failing body staggered, dropping to his knees with one clawed hand dug into the muck for balance. Alfred had lunged forward just in time to avoid being crushed underfoot and now found himself right at his enemy’s chest, the beast’s muscles pulsating and heart pumping hard, nearly visible within his mutated ribcage-- he took the chance, ramming his arm straight through rotten flesh like an arrow to a bullseye, grabbing whatever he could dig his claws into and ripping it out with all his might in a spray of blood and gore. Ludwig gave a final shrill scream, horselike in his dying terror, and collapsed in a quivering heap, never to rise again.

Panting and dripping blood in the aftermath, Alfred let loose a victorious roar at his fallen foe, following it up with maniacal laughter until he was completely out of breath. Droplets of blood stung his eyes, the stench of rot invaded his nose, and he could barely hear anything over the sound of his own heartbeat drumming in his ears, but he tilted his head as a pained groan and nearby splash caught his attention, finally remembering he was not alone. There was another man, wounded and weakened, struggling to stand with his back against the wall-- Alfred neared slowly, the smell of fresh human blood once again triggering something deep within and drawing him close like a predator stalking his prey.

Instead of the bucket-like helm with one hole for an eye, he was greeted by a face that had surely been handsome once but was now torn to shreds, littered with scars from fangs and claws of days past-- a face with one eye ripped clean out to leave a sunken socket behind, framed by long blonde hair peppered with white. Did Valtr wear his headgear to disguise all of this and pretend he was still intact, or to hide his one remaining eye with its pupil blown wide, on the verge of being inescapably blood-drunk? Not that it mattered to Alfred, who was clearly losing his own cognitive battle at an alarming rate and had the collapsing pupils to show for it-- both conditions of lost insight, he would later realize, plainly shown through the eyes. He could have laughed at the irony, had he been in his right mind.

Finally upright, Valtr dropped his weapon to test his twice-injured shoulder, making a fist and gritting his teeth through the pain, wincing as the muscles beneath his skin were clearly visible through the wound. His breathing was heavy, rattling loudly in his chest, and every few moments his head seemed to shudder as if fighting off an enemy only he could see-- as soon as the older man realized he was being cornered he jerked back, taking his last blood vial and jamming the needle into his leg with a hiss, then a sigh of relief as some of the damage was undone.

“Do you feel them squirming and writhing in your veins?” Valtr asked with a huff of laughter, the intensity in Alfred’s eyes and the way his lips drew back hungrily from sharpened teeth making the League master’s skin prickle with excitement. “You know, don’t you-- yes, you must. You’re _rotten_ , boy!”

He reached for the handle of his saw, but in a split second Alfred grabbed Valtr’s good shoulder and slammed him against the stone wall with brute force, one gloved hand around his neck to strangle the life from him. Valtr clawed at his attacker for only a moment before calming, holding onto the executioner’s arm and lifting his chin almost as an invitation, his hoarse laughter turning manic and unhinged. The younger man loosened his grip just enough to lean in with a snarl upon his face, merely an inch of space between the two of them, a threatening and most inhuman growl rumbling at the back of his throat. His broad form pinned the League master tightly to the wall, and the roar of his empty stomach became obvious to the both of them in this position, though Valtr made no more effort to fight back-- _why wasn’t he fighting back?_

“I know what your hunger wants, I've seen it before,” Valtr said through gritted teeth, barely able to breathe. “Do it, beast!"

It took a moment before Alfred could bring himself to stand down and regain a portion of his humanity, breathing hard and steady to try and control the urge to rip the remains of Valtr’s face clean off his skull. His arm squeezing the older man’s neck trembled and loosened slightly, though he would not let go-- in the one instant he relented, Valtr lurched forward to trap the executioner in a kiss so violent Alfred could hardly figure out if it was a gesture of passionate fury or a clever kind of stun attack. Whatever the case, neither seemed able to decide, and both men fought for control in a flurry of teeth and claws, drawing blood through sensitive lips, tearing at each other’s clothing as if their lives depended on it. 

Each time Valtr made a move to slip free of his companion’s grip, he found himself wrestled back into place against the wall with a thumb jabbed against his voicebox, the pain radiating into his jaw and making it feel as though his entire throat would collapse at any moment. He was light-headed from the struggle, not to mention rock hard beneath his trousers-- his fingers stumbled around the buttons of his constable’s uniform and the shirt he wore underneath, but soon enough he had peeled them off and was back to rifling through the executioner’s robes, glad to feel he was not the only one who had been excited by the fight. 

“Degenerate,” Valtr murmured, grinding against his partner’s thigh. “If only your Master could see you now!”

A sudden wave of shame washed over the executioner at the thought of his dear Master Logarius witnessing this vile behaviour, and a throbbing ache ran through his gut right to his groin as a result. Letting this ungodly fellow speak to him in such a way, goading him into obeying his bestial urges, it was unconscionable. 

“Enough,” he spat, simply prompting a laugh from Valtr-- with a little growl of frustration, Alfred took the League master by the waist and strong-armed him into facing the wall, fingers hooked over his belt and constable’s trousers, arousal pressed tightly between his partner’s legs. 

Looking over his shoulder with his remaining eye, Valtr could see a tinge of redness in the executioner’s cheeks, and as he helped to undo and wriggle out of his own clothing he chuckled, understanding the approach he would have to take to get what he wanted. After all, he would be returned to his own world no worse for wear-- full license to say and do as he pleased after the battle, as far as he was concerned.

“Is that all you have to say?” Valtr taunted in a gravelly voice, loosening his undergarments and grinning from ear to ear. “Rutting against me after a kill, you’re nothing more than a beast in church clothing! You know I’m right, don’t you, boy?”

Another delicious jolt of shame shook Alfred to his core, and he grabbed a fistful of Valtr's hair, keeping his head pressed tightly against the wall. If a beast was what he wanted, then by the gods that’s what he would get-- with no more preparation than a bit of spit smeared over his aching cock, Alfred rubbed himself back and forth along the delicate skin between the older man’s legs before nudging against his opening, forcing himself in with one hard thrust. A gasp of pain laced with pleasure met his ears, his partner’s entire body tensing up, slick inner muscles clamping down around his cock and drawing out a heady moan. 

Grabbing Valtr’s wrist and holding it against the wall, the executioner’s hips began pumping full force right out of the gate, no love or tenderness in his mind while working himself into a frenzy. His nose ran along the back of the League master’s neck, and at first he licked the blood and sweat from the other man’s skin, then sunk his teeth into the soft flesh with a low growl, delighted by the cry of pain and huff of laughter that followed. 

“That’s it-- Aah--!” Valtr exclaimed, nails dug into his own palms, arching his back eagerly. “ _Yes!_ ”

Alfred puffed hard breaths by Valtr’s ear as he slammed his cock in to the hilt over and over, holding on tightly with blood dribbling over his teeth and down his chin. A sharp pang of hunger then brought him to jerk his head back without first letting go, wrenching a chunk of meat free to the sound of the older man’s agonized howl, then nearly swallowing it whole. There was no stopping him now-- with his prey pinned and entirely unable to escape, the beast won out. Alfred greedily dug his fangs back into the fresh wound to tear off bite after bite, still working hard to fuck the older man for all he was worth. 

_After all, that’s what the League master had wanted, wasn’t it?_

Had he not been held firmly against the wall, Valtr may very well have sunk down to his knees in that moment, engulfed in every sense by Alfred-- the raw pleasure of his hard cock hitting sensitive spots within, the mind-numbing pain of being devoured piece by piece, the sounds and smells and bulky warmth around him all _Alfred_ , the younger man using the entirety of his partner’s body until there was no more to be had, and he was finally satisfied. It was too much to take in all at once, too much to process, and Valtr soon cried out as his cock twitched in climax, his one free hand stroking himself furiously until he had been milked of every last drop of cum.

Feeling strong muscle spasms squeezing all around his length, the executioner let go of his partner’s long hair and grabbed his waist instead, holding him steady while his hips shuddered and delivered his last fevered thrusts. His eyes shut briefly as he let go of Valtr and pulled out, taking a minute to recover, with the older man’s laboured breathing in time with his own. For one blissful moment there was no hunger, nothing feral clawing at his consciousness, just the fuzzy ebb and flow of pleasure in his own private bubble.

The League master soon began to stir, groaning in pain as he shifted against the broader man, turning to meet face to face and come back down to reality. Alfred had done a number on Valtr’s back, tearing off quite a few strips of flesh in his feeding frenzy, and though Valtr could only feel the damage he could see the aftermath in the blood streaked all over Alfred’s nose and mouth, his stained robes and sticky muttonchops still dripping crimson down his front.

“There you are,” Valtr softly rumbled, watching the spark of humanity reappear in those haunted green eyes. “That’s a good lad, hm?”

Feeling as though his soul had been torn from his body and just now returned, Alfred shuddered and backed a few paces away from the League master, finally able to comprehend what he had just done. Valtr watched him struggle with his inner demons, curious but also feeling a scrap of pity for the younger man, though as the bliss of orgasm dissipated and his physical pain grew by the second, he knew his time in this world was at its end. Very carefully bending down, hissing the entire time as his wounds stretched and nerves screamed bloody murder, he pulled his trousers up from around his ankles and fished out a small metallic object, his saving grace.

“Ring me again sometime, while you’re still able,” he said as he fired a silencing blank, the smile he wore having just a touch of melancholy to it. 

In a burst of soft blue light, the Master of the League’s figure blurred and then fizzled out, arm raised in noble salute until he had completely disappeared. 

Now, Alfred was truly alone with his thoughts.

No matter how many inner voices shrieked at him to purge the human flesh from his stomach and repent for the sake of his immortal soul, he could not be convinced to do so over the satisfaction of having a full belly for the first time in what seemed like days. The very thought should have had him retching right then and there, and he did scrub frantically at his face to erase proof of the deed, but he could not bring himself to be rid of his meal, and that was the most worrying part of all. 

At a complete loss for what to do, Alfred paced over to the cold, dead body that had housed Ludwig the Holy Blade’s consciousness and dropped to one knee, hoping he would find solace in this one thing-- he began to pray. 

Softly, the whispers of lines he had repeated hundreds of times before flowed from him with practiced ease, the storm in his mind calming as he took on a familiar meditative state, humbling himself before the cosmos and the gods above. He barely even noticed delicate footsteps approaching him from behind until they were right by his side, then felt thin fingers combing affectionately through his wavy blonde hair.

“A tragic figure, wouldn’t you say?” a familiar voice asked over his shoulder.

“Simon,” the executioner said simply, sounding both concerned and relieved. “How much did you see?”

“Ah, I missed the battle, I’m afraid.” 

Alfred looked up to the harrowed hunter expectantly, searching the leaner man’s face for some indication of disgust or moral outrage, but he found only a neutral expression, completely unreadable, which bothered him more than he would have liked.

“And?” he pressed on.

“And...?” Simon repeated, feigning innocence for the sake of his companion’s dignity.

Alfred lowered his gaze for a moment of silence before rising to his feet, not willing to pursue the matter any further. Seeking comfort instead, he slid an arm around Simon’s waist and rested his head against the thin man’s shoulder while he contemplated Ludwig’s legacy, looking suitably crestfallen. A hand gently patted his rounded belly in response, and he swallowed hard, ignoring the audible noises of digestion from within-- of course Simon knew. How couldn’t he?

“I hope he’s finally found peace,” the executioner said solemnly, eyes scanning over Ludwig’s disfigured corpse.

“Mm. He’s earned that much, at least,” Simon agreed. “He was a noble sort, despite being led so terribly astray.”

There was an uncomfortable silence left hanging between them, then, both knowing the topic of the Church was a contentious one.

“...In what manner?” Alfred finally asked, unable to help himself.

Simon let out a sigh, slipping free from the bigger man’s grasp to go inspect the sword that had been discarded in the battle, squatting by Ludwig’s side.

“I understand where your loyalties lie, but the Healing Church has shown you only one of its many faces,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “I’d suggest you continue through this Nightmare and see the others for yourself, while you still can. Your time grows short, my friend.”

Alfred frowned and looked away, not wanting to hear such things. Simon returned to his side, sword in tow, and gave it one last inspection before handing it to the other man, hoping such an artifact might bring him at least a sliver of happiness.

“Will you come with me?” Alfred asked, gratefully accepting the weapon and giving it a few practice swings to distract himself from his pesky feelings.

“No. At least, not yet. My enemy is hot on my heels.”

“Why's that?”

“I’m afraid you would side with him should you know why,” Simon admitted. “The strength of your convictions is astounding.”

“I have nothing else. Well, except this lovely sword, I suppose,” Alfred added with a grin, to which Simon gave a genuine laugh.

“Go on, then. Seek your truth, whatever it may be. I think we shall meet again.”

Biting his lip, Alfred grabbed Simon in a tight hug. It was brief but meaningful, just as their time together had been, and both men were content to leave it at that, Simon even adding a little pat to the executioner’s butt for good measure.

“I pray we do,” Alfred said at last, giving a final nod before turning on his heel to continue his journey.


End file.
